


Just Deserts

by Aoidos



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: M/M, Porn With Plot, Rape/Non-con Elements, Situational Humiliation, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 02:04:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9152680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aoidos/pseuds/Aoidos
Summary: Drabble based on a prompt: "May I request a drabble involving Bond taking Q over his knee?"I'm not sure if the non-con warning is necessary, but I know readers have differing degrees of triggers.





	

Q likes to think he’s above certain base human impulses: spontaneity, irrationality, jealousy—all daughters of the original sin, disorder. A lazy mind is one that wanders, and in the fog of confusion, latches on to such petty buoys. But as head of Q branch, he is not permitted these mental detours, so he tells himself that it is not pettiness that motivates him to berate Bond in front of all of Q branch (and several of the other Double-Os, plus Tanner and M) during a new weapons demonstration, but rather his unwavering commitment to procedure and order. He has to do it, he tells himself, in order to send a message to his department and the other agents. The message being: Don’t mess with me.

It is not Bond and the nixed, customized Aston Martin or brief tryst with Madeleine Swann that fuels his furious little path as he stalks across the demonstration room and rips the Walther PPK from Bond’s hand. Nor is it because of the previous panic attacks on flights he didn’t want to take, or the bullets that narrowly avoided his skull in service to a man who doesn’t know the first thing about his actual life that motivates Q to say in a too-loud voice: “Perhaps if you’d paid attention the first time I showed you how to use it, you wouldn’t keep jamming it.”

He wishes the smattering of titters from the younger engineers provided more comfort.

“I know how to shoot a gun, Q,” Bond rumbles in return, not even bothering to look at him. He’s staring down the target at the end of the range.

And yes, it’s true they’ve been having trouble with the new sensor models for sometime now, but Bond doesn’t know that.

“Maybe you’d be more comfortable with a musket.” That one earns more laughter and Bond’s gaze switches to his face. Q’s cheeks burn in response and he stares down at the gun, angrily fiddling with the chamber until it clicks into place. It was a cheap joke. Lazy. The ultimate sin. Bond’s age is no defect, and that understanding has been a sacred detente between them. Q feels sick that he backpedaled for the sake of a cheap point. “Here,” he spits and thrusts the gun back into Bond’s palm.

He’s in a rotten mood the rest of the day, right up until he trudges up the steps of his home and unlocks the front door. The lights are off so he senses the correct path down the hallway and into the kitchen, right up until he turns on the light and drops his messenger bag on the floor, frightening one of the cats because bloody Bond is sitting in his parlor.

“Fuck,” he gasps, clutching over his heart.

There’s a crystal tumbler on the table beside the chair Bond is occupying, a brown liquid resting at the base. Probably whisky. Q suddenly tries to remember if he bought whisky at some point.

“That was a fresh little stunt you pulled today,” Bond smirks.

Any confidence Q felt in his leadership position is now gone. He’s flustered, heart hammering, and he buys some time by stooping down to fetch his bag and place it on the counter. Then he stoops down to apologetically scratch behind the cat’s ears. He wonders where the other one is—probably hiding from Bond.

“What’s good for the goose…” he finally says, shrugging.

Bond stares at him. “Meaning?”

“If you’re a rotten shit, don’t be surprised when people are rotten shits to you in return.”

It’s almost a reward in itself when Bond’s eyes widen in surprise and he laughs, a loud, abrupt sound. “Pardon?”

Q ignores him and stalks to the bedroom, just so he can have a moment to shed his coat and jacket, to deposit the bag by his closet, and roll up the sleeves of his undershirt to the elbows. It’s too hot. He needs to turn down the heat.

By the time he walks back into the parlor, Bond is gone.

Or so he thinks. The man simply isn’t seated in the chair anymore. What Q doesn’t notice is he’s concealed, pressed flush against the adjacent wall, and he doesn’t realize until the man has him by the back of the neck. “What—” he gasps before the room tilts and the man roughly drags him over to the couch and drapes him across his lap. “—the fuck?!” he finishes, outraged, his voice embarrassingly squeaking.

He tries to kick but Bond’s other hand grips him by the back of the trousers. The agent could probably pick him up and carry Q around the house like a sack of laundry.

“Apologize,” Bond simply commands.

Q very nearly chokes on his outrage. “I’m going to report you to M,” he hisses, arm whipping to the side in an attempt to crack Bond across the face, but he simply releases Q’s scruff and grips his wrist, wrenching it painfully behind his back. Q’s shoulder screams in objection and he stills. If he thrashes, he could dislocate it.

“Shhh…” Bond replies, fierce grip squeezing the bones. He could easily snap every bone in Q’s body and they both know it.

Any confidence he felt at MI6 has completely evaporated, which of course was Bond’s plan all along.

“Say you’re sorry,” he commands again, though this time he releases the back of Q’s trousers and his hand dips down to stroke between his thighs.

Q’s whole body jolts in surprise. “What’re you doing?” he gasps, afraid and alarmed all at once.

“Teaching you a lesson,” Bond says, completely unrattled. They might as well be discussing the weather because this is familiar terrain for Bond, who is fluent in all languages of negotiation. But for Q, this is….well…alien. 

It takes Bond gripping an ass cheek and squeezing it for his brain to come back online. 

“Fuck off,” he growls, thrashing again. Pain radiates from his shoulder, but he refuses to whine in response. His heels petulantly collide with the couch’s armrest, shirt damp with perspiration, his face flush, but Bond is perfectly composed when he lifts his hand and whips it back down, the palm loudly colliding with Q’s ass and sending him jerking across the man’s lap.

He grunts loudly, unprepared for the assault. Afterwards, he lays there, too stunned to speak. He turns his head away from Bond, the cheek pressed to the upholstery, glasses slightly tilted. He’s breathing hard but can’t speak. He doesn’t trust himself to. 

“Say it,” Bond instructs again, but he stubbornly locks his jaw.

The pressure of his hand disappears again and a moment later the large paw smacks his cheek again and Q can’t help the gasp of surprise. “Stop it,” he grunts. This time, the hand lingers in its wake, rubbing the surface, soothing the burn. Q shuts his eyes, refusing to linger on the fact that it feels good.

“Stubborn boy,” Bond murmurs, reaching underneath to fumble at Q’s belt, which renews his desire to fight. He squirms, kicking and swearing beneath his breath, but Bond’s only needs to wrench down his trousers and briefs a short distance to expose the flesh of his ass. “Say it,” he repeats, gruffer, hand loudly smacking Q’s bare skin. 

This time, Q’s cries out. He bucks atop Bond’s lap, furious and humiliated. He’s going to get Bond fired. Possibly imprisoned. He’ll have his head on a bloody platter. “Fuck you,” he cries, jerking again when the man begins to rhythmically spank him, until his hand is a familiar paddle rippling the poor, abused flesh of his ruddy rear. Q is unable to help the whine that leaves his throat, and the pathetic way his body squirms on the end of the assault.

He also cannot help his hardening cock, which he tells himself is a natural byproduct of being pinned against Bond’s thighs. It takes him a while to realize that Bond is hard too. In fact, the epiphany doesn’t fully visit him until Bond grabs a fistful of his hair and pushes him to the side. Q is so enormously relieved to have his arm free again that he scrambled to his knees, not bothering to consider why he’s been freed until he sees Bond unfastening his belt.

Q straightens his glasses and watches Bond push down the slacks, freeing his cock, and only has a moment to fully take in the sight of the man when Bond grabs him by the back of the head and pushes him into his crotch. He gasps, reaching back to try and pry the agent’s hands from the back of his skull, but Bond shushes him again. “This is how you apologize,” he explains, gripping his length and pressing the head to Q’s lips.

The hard, wet head pushes into his mouth and Q gasps, barely having a moment to get his bearings when Bond presses him downwards and the hard length fills his mouth. He reflexively moans, humiliated and furious, but also undeniably aroused. Bond is wild and masculine, a force of nature against which Q is utterly helpless, and if he was being honest, he would admit he doesn’t really want to fight the onslaught anymore.

“Go on,” Bond grunts. Q takes him deep and draws back with a long, hard suck. “Good,” the man sighs, stroking the back of his neck, pressing, guiding him on the up and down track. 

He hollows his cheeks and sets a rapid pace, the head nudging the back of his throat. A few times, he gags a bit and Bond keeps him pinned there a moment, just to reinforce their roles. Q has been rude and petulant and Bond doesn’t intend to let him forget this lesson.

“I can do this to you whenever I want,” he murmurs, stroking Q’s locks as he sucks him, and his face burns in response. 

It’s true. They both know it’s true.

“I’m going to come in your mouth and you’re going to swallow, understand?” Q tosses a poisonous look up at him and Bond smirks, touching his lips as they’re stretched around his length. “Understand?”

Q can only moan in reply. Bond commands him to suck harder, faster, and rests his head against the back of the couch, eyes shut as he grunts and moans, unspeakably sexy noises that make Q’s entire body feel warm. And then suddenly there’s a hot burst against his tongue and he groans again, swallowing because that’s what he was told to do. He thinks it’s mildly disconcerting that it feels so good to obey Bond’s orders.

He’s dimly aware of the man reaching to the side to grope his rear, which is still exposed, the trousers and briefs bunched around his knees. Q whimpers in pain, and he may imagine it, but he thinks Bond makes a soft noise of sympathy.

Bond releases him and Q slides off his softening cock, face red in humiliation. Neither of them speak as he fumbles to straighten his glasses and pull up his trousers.

He wants to threaten Bond with the wrath of the law, but more than that, he wants to invite the man into his bed.

Bond tucks away his prick and zips the fly. As he stands, he fastens his belt and glances at Q, who is flushed and breathing hard on the couch. “Going to report me?” he challenges, infuriatingly smug and handsome.

“Maybe,” Q replies, grasping for his dignity, wishing his voice didn’t sound so raw and broken.

“See what happens if you do,” Bond replies, the threat sending a thrill up Q’s spine. 

The man actually winks at him and Q simply smirks, watching him walk through the kitchen, down the hallway, and letting himself out the front door.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm taking drabble requests at my tumblr: theaoidos.tumblr.com


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